#85

Kane X. Faucher
The difference of signatures

There are no differences without signatures,
Without the gentle curlicue of an stylosyncratic
Cursive script ring-fenced lines bordering space.
Without your personal, bio-habilitating imprimatur
Undulating or looping in a jeu d’esprit
Of penmanacleship.
Without the clumsy or intended collision of letters
Like a shipwrecked ligature lured by the briars
Of tangled orthographics.
A style guiding the stylus
In a mock transfer of essence
From person to page.
In presence the future is contracted,
A Chelonian document beneath which,
Bottom line
Is found the graffiti of your dissimilarity.

 

Fenton Grant
Tai Chi Chung – Lesson One

“Do you feel the energy,”
Asked the instructor, Kat.
“Should my elbow hurt this much,”
Asked Mary.
“I feel it,”
Said Caroline
In response to Kat.

My elbow,
Having swung,
A pendulum to my breath,
Right gloating
At my left’s expense,
Ached.

Mary, lines dividing
Her face
Into volumes,
Time’s humor
Smelled of mothballs,
The toys the dusty butterflies
Must play with
Prior to
Their kamikaze date
With a street lamp,
And my nose,
My face’s yield sign,
Flapped with Mary’s scent.

My nose,
Jealous of the other senses,
Reeled at the mothballs,
But halted,
Sealed up
And locked the door,
At Ed,
The obese man to my left,
Next to my aching elbow;
My nose,
A stop sign
To the putrid,
Week old salsa
Scent
Drifting from
Ed’s feet,
Protested
The intrusion.

“Fenton,” said Kat,
“Do you feel the energy?”
And I said,
Elbow aching,
Nose closed,
“I guess.”

 

 

Matt Finney
i.

the storm is pushing its way to the north and we’re cold in the shadows of factories. money is exchanged and the idea of christ has lost all power. everyone we love is murdered and everything we own is stolen. these walls protect us from nothing.

 

 

Cole Nowicki
Turkey.

Her yoga inspired tracksuit
explained every crack,
crease,
and dimple I cared not to
know about.

In the centre lane
she gyrated,
gesticulated,
and screeched celebration
while bowling balls
shot off at her flanks.

She dished out self-indulged
hi-fives,
hand-pistol gunfire,
and graphic booty shakes.

More pins fell,
she kept dancing,
like the life of the party
no-one wants to be at.

 

 

Helen Peterson
Beds I Have Known

The first was a virginal white canopy, the stuff little girls’ dream are made of, which was perfect, because the lavender paint on the walls was called Little Girl. It said so on the can. When I first moved out, though, it just didn’t seem to fit in a stark off-white quad, so I grabbed some acrylics I was working with at the time and painted royal blue clouds and acid yellow suns on the headboard, then spent the rest of the day recreating Van Gogh’s Starry Night on the matching dresser. The pièce de résistance was the mustard yellow velveteen bedspread, lined with fringe, a classmate and I had found at the local Good Will. When my mother first saw it, she shook her head and said, “girl, you’ve lost it.” I hit her back with, “sorry Mom, but I lost it long ago. Felt like I was sleeping a lie.”

           Whatever its color, it beat the numerous cots slept on in dorms or Girl Scout camps both before and after. It was inevitable, though, that when Josh moved in the canopy had to go. For a while we slept on a bare mattress which, considering we were two young writers of the grunge generation, was ok by us. But once again maternal forces were at work. His mother arrived one morning with a black metal four poster complete with twisted gothic spires. As the evil twin of the bed I’d left behind, (now back at home, being furiously stripped and repainted by my mother), it should have clued me in that this relationship was not going to end well. But, I was stupid in love, so wasn’t really in a position to read such obvious signs. All this left me quite unprepared when I was abruptly left bedless. Fortunately, a friend of mine ran a flea market booth she’d inherited from her father, and she had plenty bedframes stockpiled in her attic. I picked out the least musty one in the pile and strapped it to the roof of my Ford Escort. Even with six bungee cords, I still had to roll down the window and hold on tight, but we managed to get home, my “new” bed and I, without killing anyone.

           That bed, plain, wooden, modest of height, was very good to me. It lasted through my first few rebounds, and the harrowing two nights I left it alone with an S&M loving house sitter. I thought that bed and I would be together forever. But alas for true love.

           It was bound to happen sooner or later, that I’d find a new “livable” man. He was perfect, black wavy hair, funny, intelligent, and best of all, the cutest catcher’s butt you’ve ever laid hands on. It was great living with that ass, but a pain in the neck to sleep with it. I added to the problem. In addition to the canopy bed, I inherited breasts the size of ripe cantaloupes from my mother. What were Tits and Ass going to do to make this relationship work? The bed had to go.

           I searched high and low for a sizable replacement. Double wasn’t working, Queen wasn’t much better, and a new King was pricey. Finally, in an auction house built into the back of an old mill, there it was; a blonde wood hotel king, with built in shelves on the headboard. Nobody wanted it, so I was able to pick it up for twenty five bucks. This left me with ample enough left over to go down to Bob’s Discount Furniture and pick up a Bob-o-Pedic to match. I called up my mother to help me lug it all home in her pickup.

           And there it remains to this day, my own personal Bed Heaven. True, you have to crawl over it to get from one side of my pea sized bedroom to the other, but I’m still with Mr. Catcher’s Butt, so that bed is worth its weight in, well, wood.

 

 

Ross Felton
The City’s Mouth

Blissfully taken away by the
Distant chainsaw, train
Whistle and wail. Such sun
And the ambulance cries some
Days.
It too, always far
Far away.

 

 

H.E. Mantel
– THE POET AS NARCISSIST? –

Read me
after
you
won’t wanna Read
just anyone
&
the anyone
you Read
you’ll get

Cacoethes Scribendi

I live
in the 3rd. House, amongst
the rooms & roomers
of
serial Poets
where roomer has It

Cacoethes Scribendi

The walls dissolve
solve
the Vidalian Manifestos
Emily, & Amelia’s plaintive arcanae
G.M.H. posies anew
& Sylvia cuts a wider plath
Pound-for-pound, expound
in
Bows to the Bard, all…

Cacoethes Scribendi

Manys are the ways
of says
Days of yore
nay, the rub
is
Fore…
Read me?
The Poetry of
Christ Crisis, Jesus!

Cacoethes Scribendi

More
Your Cocktail Party, TS?
Ain’t no Brautigan Trout… left, right?
Manys are the ways
of says…
Lenny, dear, missed Lenny
I’d daven the 55-yr.-old-hipster ring
had they not shot you
when
you laugh I weep, cry
in the 3rd. House, ‘mongst
the rooms & roomers –
Baldwin Malcolms
Malcolm Baldwins
in
serial Poet –
where roomer has It

Cacoethes Scribendi

The Poet Parable & Paraboled
Nazarene
up, onto
the parched pages
stages
Sages
sapient sum, but
the cum gun scrawls all

Cacoethes Scribendi

And the other
Brother to the Son of the Father
a Mother of all motherf******
big bad John The Beatle Baptist
all pall

Cacoethes Scribendi

Ashbery brandy
Bly the grace of G*d
front the windows’ portal
graces the Bureau du Roi
defers
the tabulae rasae retabled
to palimpsests
streams of freshets aflow tributaries
ajoist enjoined my mistresses davit
to larger waters

Cacoethes Scribendi

In the 3rd. House, among
the rooms & roomers
of
serial Poets
where roomer has It
I live
Prosetry moribund Prosetry

Cacoethes Scribendi!

 

 

Paul Hellweg
Time Snob

Life is too short
to watch senseless movies,
talk to boring people,
read popular fiction
           and self-published poets,
I have more pressing things to do,
like
lie around depressed
           and semi-comatose
           all day long,
browse internet porn,
stuff myself into torpor,
and
drink myself to oblivion.

Watch a Hollywood movie?

No thanks,
I don’t have the time.

2 thoughts on “#85

  1. Now THAT IS what I call an insightful thought on this subject. What I would suggest though is talking to other people actively involved in the scene and bring to day any conflicting points of view and then update or create a new article for us to stew over. I hope you’ll take my ideas, I’m looking forward to it! Try to cover off on some graffiti characters as well if you can, they’re very popular at the moment.

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